LIBRARY 

University  of  California^ 

IRVINE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
John  and  mary  prescott 


one  pou 
mustf  get  next  to 


1' age  57 


Impertinent 
Poems 

By 
Edmund  Vance  Cooke 


Author  of 

Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot' 

"Told  to  the  Little  Tot" 

"Rimes  to  Be  Read" 

Etc. 


With  Illustrations  by 
Gordon  Ross 


Death  comes  with  a  crawl,  or  comes  tvith  *  pounce, 
And  "whether  he's  slow,  or  spry, 
It  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  dead  that  counts 
But  only— how  did  you  die  ? 


New  York 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 
220  East  23rd  Street 


*«. 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
Edmund  Vance  Cooke 

Copyright,  1907,  by 
Dodge  Publishing  Company 


A  PRE-IMPERTINENCE. 

A  NTICIPATING  the  intelligent  critic  of  "Im 
pertinent  Poems,"  it  may  well  be  remarked  that 
the  chief  impertinence  is  in  calling  them  poems. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  editors  and  publishers  of  "The 
Saturday  Evening  Post,"  "Success"  and  "Ainslee's," 
and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  "Metropolitan,"  "Indepen 
dent,"  "Booklovers' "  and  "New  York  Herald"  share 
with  the  author  the  reproach  of  first  promoting  their 
publicity.  That  they  are  now  willing  to  further  re 
duce  their  share  of  the  burden  by  dividing  it  with 
the  present  publishers  entitles  them  to  the  thanks 
of  the  author  and  the  gratitude  of  the  book-buying 
public.  E.  V.  C. 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

Are  You  You  ? 59 

Better   83 

Between  Two  Thieves 71 

Blood    is    Red 33 

Bubble-Flies,    The 61 

Choice,    The 68 

Conscience    Pianissimo 47 

Conservative,    The 40 

Critics,    The 89 

Dead  Men's  Dust 11 

Desire    99 

Diagnosis     35 

Dilettant,   The 38 

Distance  and  Disenchantment 77 

Don't  Take  Your  Troubles  to  Bed 22 

Don't    You? 16 

Eternal    Everyday,   The 21 

Failure    23 

Familiarity  Breeds  Contempt 95 

Family   Resemblance 79 

First   Person   Singular,  The 66 

Forget  What  the  Other  Man  Hath 85 

Get    Next 57 

Good  24 

Grill,   The 30 

How  Did  You  Die?.  .                                                    .  103 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

Humbler    Heroes 45 

Hush  41 

In  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Now 14 

Island,  The 43 

Let's  Be  Glad  We're  Living 26 

Move    55 

Need    81 

Pass    51 

Plug    92 

Price,    The 60 

Publicity    53 

Qualified    63 

Saving    Clause,    The 70 

Song  of  Rest,  A 97 

Spectator,    The 73 

Spread    Out 37 

Squealer,    The 75 

Success    28 

There  Is,  Oh,  So  Much 101 

Vision,    The 32 

What  Are  You  Doing  ? 65 

What   Sort  Are  You  ? 87 

Whet,    The 86 

World  Runs  On,  The 49 

You  Too 18 


IMPERTINENT 
POEMS 


DEAD  MEN'S  DUST. 

"\7OIJ  don't  buy  poetry.     (Neither  do  I.) 

Why? 

You  cannot  afford  it?     Bosh!  you  spend 
Editions  de  luxe  on  a  thirsty  friend. 
You  can  buy  any  one  of  the  poetry  bunch 
For  the  price  you  pay  for  a  business  lunch. 
Don't  you  suppose  that  a  hungry  head, 
Like  an  empty  stomach,  ought  to  be  fed? 
Looking  into  myself,  I  find  this  true, 
So  I  hardly  can  figure  it  false  in  you. 


(ii) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS. 


And  you  don't  read  poetry  very  much. 

(Such 

Is  my  own  case  also.)    "But,"  you  cry, 
"I  have  n't  the  time."     Beloved,  you  lie. 
When  a  scandal  happens  in  Buffalo, 
You  ponder  the  details,  con  and  pro; 
If  poets  were  pugilists,  couldn't  you  tell 
Which  of  the  poets  licked  John  L.? 
If  poets  were  counts,  could  your  wife  be  fooled 
As  to  which  of  the  poets  married  a  Gould? 
And  even  my  books  might  have  some  hope 
If  poetry  books  were  books  of  dope. 

"You're  a  little  bit  swift,"  you  say  to  me, 

"See!" 

You  open  your  library.     There  you  show 
Your  "favorite  poets,"  row  on  row, 
Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Tennyson,  Poe, 
A  Homer  unread,  an  uncut  Horace, 
A  wholly  forgotten  William  Morris. 
My  friend,  my  friend,  can  it  be  you  thought 
That  these  were  poets  whom  you  had  bought? 
These   are   dead   men's   bones.     You   bought   their 

mummies 

To  display  your  style,  like  clothing  dummies. 
But  when  do  they  talk  to  you?    Some  one  said 
That  these  were  poets  which  should  be  read, 
So  here  they  stand.    But  tell  me,  pray, 
How  many  poets  who  live  to-day 

(12) 


Have  you,  of  your  own  volition,  sought, 
Discovered  and  tested,  proved  and  bought, 
With  a  grateful  glow  that  the  dollar  you  spent 
Netted  the  poet  his  ten  per  cent.? 

"But  hold  on,"  you  say,  "I  am  reading  you." 

True, 

And  pitying,  too,  the  sorry  end 
Of  the  dog  I  tried  this  on.     My  friend, 
I  can  write  poetry — good  enough 
So  you  would  n't  look  at  the  worthy  stuff. 
But  knowing  what  you  prefer  to  read 
I'm  setting  the  pace  at  about  your  speed, 
Being  rather  convinced  these  truths  will  hold  you 
A  little  bit  better  than  if  I'd  told  you 
A  genuine  poem  and  forgotten  to  scold  you. 
Besides,  when  I  open  my  little  room 
And  see  my  poets,  each  in  his  tomb, 
With  his  mouth  dust-stopped,  I  turn  from  the  shelf 
And  I  must  scold  you,  or  scold  myself. 


(13) 


IN  NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  NOW. 


MOORE,  at  the  present  date, 
Is  chiefly  known  as  "a  ten-cent  straight." 
Walter,  the  Scot,  is  forgiven  his  rimes 
Because  of  his  tales  of  stirring  times. 
William  Morris's  fame  will  wear 
As  a  practical  man  who  made  a  chair. 
And  even  Shakespere's  memory's  green 
Less  because  he's  read  than  because  he's  seen. 
Then  why  should  a  poet  make  his  bow 
In  the  year  of  nineteen  hundred  and  now? 

Homer  himself,  if  he  could  but  speak, 

Would  admit  that  most  of  his  stuff  is  Greek. 

Chaucer  would  no  doubt  own  his  tongue 

Was  the  broken  speech  of  the  land  when  young. 

Shelley's  a  sealed-up  book,  and  Byron 

Is  chiefly  recalled  as  a  masculine  siren. 

Poe  has  a  perch  on  the  chamber  door, 

But  the  populace  read  him  "Nevermore." 

Spenser  fitted  his  day,  as  all  allow, 

But  this  is  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 

Tennyson's  chiefly  given  away 
To  callow  girls  on  commencement  day. 
Alfred  Austin,  entirely  solemn, 
Is  quoted  most  in  the  funny  column. 
Riley's  Hoosiers  have  made  their  pile 
And  moved  to  the  city  to  live  in  style. 
(14) 


Kipling's  compared  to  "The  Man  Who  Was," 
And  the  rest  of  us  write  with  little  cause, 
Till  publishers  shy  at  talk  of  per  cents., 
But  offer  to  print  "at  author's  expense." 

O,  once  the  "celestial  fire"  burned  bright, 

But  the  world  now  calls  for  electric  light! 

And  Pegasus,  too,  is  run  by  meter, 

Being  trolleyized  to  make  him  fleeter. 

So  I  throw  the  stylus  away  and  set 

Myself  at  the  typewriter  alphabet 

To  spell  some  message  I  find  within 

Which  shall  also  scratch  your  rawhide  skin, 

For  you  must  read  it,  if  I  learn  how 

To  write  for  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 


(13) 


DON'T  YOU  ? 

"\X7HEN  the  plan  which  I  have,  to  grow  suddenly 

rich 

Grows  weary  of  leg  and  drops  into  the  ditch, 
And  scheme  follows  scheme 
Like  the  web  of  a  dream 
To  glamor  and  glimmer  and  shimmer  and  setm,  •  • 

Only  seem; 
And  then,  when  the  world  looks  unfadably  blue, 

If  my  rival  sails  by 

With  his  head  in  the  sky, 

And  sings  "How  is  business?"  why,  what  do  I  do? 
Well,  I  claim  that  I  aim  to  be  honest  and  true, 
But  I  sometimes  lie,    Don't  you? 

(16) 


When  something  at  home  is  decidedly  wrong, 
When  somebody  sings  a  false  note  in  the  song, 
Too  low  or  too  high, 
And,  you  hardly  know  why, 

But  it  wrangles  and  jangles  and  runs  all  awry, 

Aye,  awry! 
And  then,  at  the  moment  when  things  are  askew, 

Some  cousin  sails  in 

With  a  face  all  a-grin, 

And  a  "Do  I  intrude?     Oh,  I  see  that  I  do!" 
Well,  then,  though  I  aim  to  be  honest  and  true, 
Still  I  sometimes  lie.    Don't  you? 

When  a  man  whom  I  need  has  some  foible  or  fad, 

Not  very  commendable,  not  very  bad; 

Perhaps  it's  his  daughter, 

And  some  one  has  taught  her 

To  daub  up  an  "oil"  or  to  streak  up  a  "water"; 

What  a  "water"! 
And  her  grass  is  green  green  and  her  sky  is  blue  blue, 

But  her  father,  with  pride, 

In  a  stagey  aside 

Asks  my  "candid  opinion."    Then  what  do  I  do? 
Well,  I  claim  that  I  aim  to  be  honest  and  true, 
But  I  sometimes  lie.    Don't  you? 


(17) 


YOU  TOO. 

T*\ID  you  ever  make  some  small  success 

And  brag  your  little  brag, 
As  if  your  breathing  would  impress 

The  world  and  fix  your  tag 
Upon  it,  so  that  all  might  see 
The  label  loudly  reading,  "ME!" 
And  when  you  thought  you  'd  gained  the 

height 

And,  sunning  in  your  own  delight, 
You    preened    your    plumes    and    crowed 

"All  right!" 

Did  something  wipe  you  out  of  sight? 
Unless  you  did  this  many  a  time 
You  need  n't  stop  to  read  this  rime. 

When  I  was  mamma's  little  joy 

And  not  the  least  bit  tough, 
I  'd  sometimes  whop  some  other  boy 

(If  he  were  small  enough), 
And  for  a  week  I  'd  wear  a  chip, 
And  at  the  uplift  of  a  lip 
I  'd  lord  it  like  a  pigmy  pope, 
Until,  when  I  had  run  my  rope, 
Some  bullet-headed  little  Swope 
Would  clean  me  out  as  slick  as  soap. 
No  doubt  you  were  as  bad,  or  worse, 
Or  else  you  had  not  read  this  verse. 

(18) 


Mtl" 


Page  iS. 


All  women  were  like  pica  print 
When  I  was  young  and  wise; 

I  'd  read  their  very  souls  by  dint 
Of  looking  in  their  eyes. 

And  in  those  limpid  souls  I'  d  see 

A  very  fierce  regard  for  me. 

And  then — my,  my,  it  makes  me  faint! — 

Peroxide  and  a  pinkish  paint 

Gave  me  the  hard,  hard  heart  complaint, 

I  saw  the  sham,  I  felt  the  taint, 

Yet  if  she  'd  pat  me  once  or  twice, 

I  'd  follow  like  a  little  fyce. 

I  never  played  a  little  game 

And  won  a  five  or  ten, 
But,  presto!  I  was  not  the  same 

As  common  makes  of  men. 
Not  Solomon  and  all  his  kind 
Held  half  the  wisdom  of  my  mind. 
And  so  I  'd  swell  to  twice  my  size, 
And  throw  my  hat  across  my  eyes, 
And  chew  a  quill,  and  wear  red  ties, 
And  tip  you  off  the  slock  to  rise — 
Until,  at  last,  I  'd  have  to  steal 
The  baby's  bank  to  buy  a  meal. 

I  speak  as  if  these  things  remained 
All  in  the  perfect  tense, 
And  yet  I  don't  suppose  I  've  gained 
A  single  ounce  of  sense. 

(19) 


I  scoff  these  tales  of  yesterday 
In  quite  a  supercilious  way, 
But  by  to-morrow  I  may  bump 
Into  some  newer  game  and  jump! 
You  '11  think  I  am  the  only  trump 
In  all  the  deck  until — kerslump! 
Unless  you'll  do  the  same  some  time, 
Of  course  you  have  n't  read  this  rime. 


(20) 


Cfje  €ternal 
(Efoerpbaj* 


Page  21. 


THE  ETERNAL  EVERYDAY. 

Q    ONE  might  be  like  Socrates 

>    And  lift  the  hemlock  up, 
Pledge  death  with  philosophic  ease, 
And  drain  the  untrembling  cup; — 
But  to  be  barefoot  and  be  great, 
Most  in  desert  and  least  in  state, 
Servant  of  truth  and  lord  of  fate! 
I  own  I  falter  at  the  peak 
Trod  daily  by  the  steadfast  Greek. 

O,  one  might  nerve  himself  to  climb 

His  cross  and  cruelly  die, 
Forgiving  his  betrayer's  crime, 

With  pity  in  his  eye; — 
But  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 
To  feel  his  power  and  yet  be  meek, 
Endure  the  curse  and  turn  the  cheek, 
I  scarce  dare  trust  even  you  to  be 
As  was  the  Jew  of  Galilee. 

O,  one  might  reach  heroic  heights 

By  one  strong  burst  of  power. 
He  might  endure  the  whitest  lights 

Of  heaven  for  an  hour; — 
But  harder  is  the  daily  drag, 
To  smile  at  trials  which  fret  and  fag, 
And  not  to  murmur — nor  to  lag. 
The  test  of  greatness  is  the  way 
One  meets  the  eternal  Everyday. 

(21) 


DON'T  TAKE  YOUR  TROUBLES  TO  BED. 

"yOU  may  labor  your  fill,  friend  of  mine,  if  you 
will; 

You  may  worry  a  bit,  if  you  must; 
You  may  treat  your  affairs  as  a  series  of  cares, 

You  may  live  on  a  scrap  and  a  crust; 
But  when  the  day's  done,  put  it  out  of  your  head; 
Don't  take  your  troubles  to  bed. 

You  may  batter  your  way  through  the  thick  of  the 
fray, 

You  may  sweat,  you  may  swear,  you  may  grunt; 
You  may  be  a  jack-fool  if  you  must,  but  this  rule 

Should  ever  be  kept  at  the  front:— 
Don't  fight  with  your  pillow,  but  lay  down  your  head 
And  kick  every  worriment  out  of  the  bed. 

That  friend  or  that  foe  (which  he  is,  I  don't  know), 
Whose  name  we  have  spoken  as  Death, 

Hovers  close  to  your  side,  while  you  run  or  you  ride, 
And  he  envies  the  warmth  of  your  breath; 

But  he  turns  him  away,  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 

When  he  finds  that  you  don't  take  your  troubles  to 
bed. 


(22) 


FAILURE. 

"\X7HAT  is  a  failure?  It 's  only  a  spur 

To  a  man  who  receives  it  right, 

And  it  makes  the  spirit  within  him  stir 

To  go  in  once  more  and  fight. 
If  you  never  have  failed,  it's  an  even  guess 
You  never  have  won  a  high  success. 

What  is  a  miss?  It's  a  practice  shot 
Which  a  man  must  make  to  enter 

The  list  of  those  who  can  hit  the  spot 
Of  the  bull's-eye  in  the  centre. 

If  you  never  have  sent  your  bullet  wide, 

You  never  have  put  a  mark  inside. 

What  is  a  knock-down?    A  count  of  ten 
Which  a  man  may  take  for  a  rest. 

It  will  give  him  a  chance  to  come  up  again 
And  do  his  particular  best. 

If  you  never  have  more  than  met  your  match, 

I  guess  you  never  have  toed  the  scratch. 


GOOD. 

"\7~OU  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  and  say: 

"Really,  I  'm  rather  distingue. 
To  be  sure  my  eyes 
Are  assorted  in  size, 
And  my  mouth  is  a  crack 
Running  too  far  back, 
And  I  hardly  suppose 
An  unclassified  nose 
Is  a  mark  of  beauty,  as  beauty  goes; 
But  still  there  's  something  about  the  whole 
Suggesting  a  beauty  of — wel1,  say  soul." 
And  this  is  the  reason  that  photograph-galleries 
Are  able  to  pay  employees'  salaries. 
Now,  this  little  mar*  of  our  brotherhood, 
By  which  each  thinks  that  his  looks  are  good, 
Is  laudable  quite  in  you  and  me, 
Provided  we  not  only  look,  but  be. 

I  look  at  my  poem  and  you  hear  me  say: 

"Really,  it 's  clever  in  its  way. 

The  theme  is  old 

And  the  style  is  cold. 

These  words  run  rude; 

That  line  is  crude; 

And  here  is  a  rhyme 

Which  fails  to  chime, 

And  the  metre  dances  out  of  time. 


(24) 


Oh,  it  is  n't  so  bright  it  '11  blind  the  sun, 
But  it's  better  than  that  by  Such-a-one." 
And  this  is  the  reason  I  and  my  creditors 
Curse  the  "unreasoning  whims"  of  editors, 
And  yet,  if  one  writes  for  a  livelihood, 
He  ought  to  believe  that  his  work  is  good, 
Provided  the  form  that  his  vanity  takes 
Not  only  believes,  but  also  makes. 

And  there  is  our  neighbor.    We  've  heard  him  say: 

"Really,  I  'm  not  the  commonest  clay. 

Brown  got  his  dust 

By  betraying  a  trust; 

And  Jones's  wife 

Leads  a  terrible  life; 

While  I  have  heard 

That  Robinson's  word 

Is  n't  quite  so  good  as  Gas  preferred. 

And  Smith  has  a  soul  with  seamy  cracks, 

For  he  talks  of  people  behind  their  backs!" 

And  these  are  the  reasons  the  penitentiary 

Holds  open  house  for  another  century. 

True,  we  want  no  man  in  our  neighborhood 

Who  does  n't  consider  his  character  good, 

But  then  it  ought  to  be  also  true 

He  not  only  knows  to  consider,  but  do, 


(25) 


LET'S  BE  GLAD  WE'RE  LIVING. 

I. 

/"\H,  let's  be  glad  that  we're  living  yet;  you  bet! 
^  The  sun  runs  round  and  the  rain  is  wet 

And  the  bird  flip-flops  its  wing; 
Tennis  and  toil  bring  an  equal  sweat; 
It's  so  much  trouble  to  frown  and  fret, 
So  easy  to  laugh  and  sing, 
Ting  ling! 
So  easy  to  laugh  and  sing ! 

(And  yet,  sometimes,  when  I  sing  my  song, 
I'm  almost  afraid  my  method  is  wrong.) 

II. 

Many  have  money  which  I  have  not,  God  wot! 
But  victual  and  keep  are  all  they  Ve  got, 

And  the  stars  still  dot  the  sky. 
Heaven  be  praised  that  they  shine  so  bright, 
Heaven  be  praised  for  an  appetite, 
So  who  is  richer  than  I? 

Hi  yii 
Say,  who  is  richer  than  I? 

(And  yet  I'm  hoping  to  sell  this  screed 
For  several  dollars  I  hardly  need.) 

III. 

Ducats  and  dividends,  stocks  and  shares,  who  cares  1 
Worry  and  property  travel  in  pairs, 

While  the  green  grows  on  the  tree. 
A   banquet's  nothing  more  than  a  meal; 
(26) 


A  trolley 's  much  like  an  automobile, 
With  a  transfer  sometimes  free, 

Tra  lee! 
With  a  transfer  sometimes  free! 

(And  yet  you  're  unwilling,  I  plainly  see, 
To  leave  the  automobile  to  me.) 

IV. 

A  note  you  give  and  a  note  you  get;  don't  fret, 
For  they  both  may  go  to  protest  yet, 

And  the  roses  blow  perfume. 
Fortune  is  only  a  Dun  report; 
The  Homestead  Law  and  the  Bankrupt  Court 
Have  fostered  many  a  boom, 
Boom,  boom! 
Have  fostered  many  a  boom. 

(But  I  see  you  smile  in  a  rapturous  way 
On  the  man  who  is  rated  double  A.) 

V. 

Life  is  a  show  for  you  and  me;  it's  free! 
And  what  you  look  for  is  what  you  see; 

A  hill  is  a  humped-up  hollow. 
Riches  are  yours  with  a  dollar  bill; 
A  million  's  the  same  little  digit  still, 
With  nothing  but  naughts  to  follow, 

So  hollo! 

There  's  nothing  but  naughts  to  follow. 
(But  you  and  I,  as  I've  said  before, 
Could  get  along  with  a  trifle  more.) 
(27) 


SUCCESS. 

TT'S  little  the  difference  where  you  arrive; 
The  serious  question  is  how  you  strive. 

Are  you  up  to  your  eyes  in  a  wild  romance? 

Does  your  lady  lead  you  a  dallying  dance? 

Do  you  question  if  love  be  fate,  or  chance? 

Oh,  the  world  will  ask:  "Did  he  get  the  girl?" 

Though  gentleman,  coxcomb,  clown  or  churl, 

Master  or  menial  of  passion's  whirl. 

But  it  isn't  that.    The  world  will  run 

Though  you  never  bequeath  it  daughter  or  son, 

But  what,  O  lover,  will  come  to  you 

If  you  be  not  chivalrous,  honest,  true? 

As  far  ahead  as  a  man  may  think, 

You  can  see  your  little  soul  shrivel  and  shrink. 
It's  not,  "Do  you  win?" 
It  is,  "What  have  you  been?" 

Are  you  stripped  for  the  world-old,  world-wide  race 
For  the  metal  which  shines  like  the  sun's  own  face 
Till  it  dazzles  us  blind  to  the  mean  and  base? 
Do  you  say  to  yourself,  "When  I  have  my  hoard, 
I  will  give  of  the  plenty  which  I  have  stored, 
If  the  Lord  bless  me,  I  will  bless  the  Lord"? 
And  do  you  forget,  as  you  pile  your  pelf, 
What  is  the  gift  you  are  giving  yourself? 
Though  your  mountain  of  gold  may  dazzle  the  day, 
Can  you  climb  its  height  with  your  feet  of  clay? 


(28) 


Oh,  it  isn't  the  stamp  on  the  metal  you  win; 
It 's  the  stamp  on  the  metal  you  coin  within. 

It 's  not  what  you  give ; 

It  is  "What  do  you  live?" 

Are  you  going  to  sail  the  polar  seas 
To  the  point  of  ninety-and-north  degrees, 
Where  the  very  words  in  your  larynx  freeze? 
Well,  the  mob  may  ask  "Did  he  reach  the  pole? 
Though  fair,  or  foul,  did  he  touch  the  goal?" 
But  if  that  be  the  spirit  which  stirs  your  soul, 
Off,  off  from  the  land  below  the  zeroes; 
For  you  are  not  of  the  stuff  of  heroes. 
Ho  I  many  a  man  can  lead  men  forth 
To  the  fearsome  end  of  the  Farthest  North, 
But  can  you  be  faithful  for  woe  or  weal 
In  a  land  where  nothing  but  self  is  leal? 

Oh,  it  isn't  "How  far?" 

It  is  what  you  are. 

And  it  is  n't  your  lookout  where  you  arrive, 
But  it 's  up  to  you  as  to  how  you  strive. 


29) 


THE  GRILL. 

\X7HY  do  you? 

What's  it  to  you? 
I  know  you  do,  for  I've  seen  the  gruesome  feeling 

simmer  through  you. 
I  've  seen  it  rise  behind  your  eyes 
And  take  your  features  by  surprise. 
I  've  seen  it  in  your  half-hid  grin 
And  the  tilting-upness  of  your  chin. 
Good-natured  though  you  are  and  fair,  as  you  have 

often  boasted, 
Still   you   like   to   hear   the   other   man   artistically 

roasted. 

Whenever  the  star  secures  the  stage  with  the  spot 
light  in  the  centre, 

Why  should  the  anvil  chorus  think  it  has  the  cue  to 
enter? 

Whenever  the  prima  donna  trills  the  E  above  the 
clef, 

Why  should  the  brasses  orchestrate  the  bass  in 
double  f? 


It 's  funny, 

But  it 's  even  money, 

You  like  to  spy  the  buzzing  fly  in  the  other  fellow's 

honey. 

Though  you  have  said  thst  honest  bread 
Demands  no  honey  on  it  spread, 
(30) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS. 


And  if  vre  cat  the  crusty  wheat 

With  appetite,  it  needs  no  sweet, 

Still  I  hsve  noticed  you  were  not  at  all  inclined  to 

cry 
Because  the  man  the  bees  had  blest  was  bothered 

with  the  fly. 

V/henever  the  chef  concocts  a  dish  which  sets  the 
vrorld  to  tasting, 

Why  dees  the  cooking-school  get  out  its  recipes  for 
basting? 

Whenever  a  sprinter  beats  the  bunch  from  the  pistol- 
shot,  why  is  it 

The  heavy  hammer  throwers  get  together  for  a 
visit? 

Excise  me! 

Did  you  accuse  me 

Of  turning  the  spit  a  little  bit  myself?     Why,  you 

amuse  me! 

Did  n't  I   scratch  the  sulphurous  match 
And  blow  the  flame  to  make  it  catch? 
Did  n't  you  trot  to  get  the  pot 
To  heat  the  water  good  and  hot? 
Then,  seizing  en  our  victim,  if  we  found  no  greater 

sin, 
Did  n't  we  call  him  "a  lobster,"  and  cheerfully  chuck 

him  in? 


(31) 


THE  VISION. 

A  T  the  door  of  Success,  I  Ve  been  tempted  to 
**•      knock 

Both  the  door  and  the  man  who  went  through  it, 
But  I  find  that  the  fellow  was  greasing  the  lock 

All  the  time  that  he  strove  to  undo  it, 
So  I  either  stay  out,  or  must  look  for  the  key 

Which  slipped  back  the  bolt  which  impeded, 
And  I  'm  certain  to  find  it,  as  soon  as  I  sec 

The  reason  my  rival  succeeded. 

Yes,  I  own  when  the  man  is  a  rank  also-ran 

That  I  feel  quite  pish-tushy  and  pooh-y, 
And  exclaim  if  he  ever  knew  saw-dust  from  bran, 

Well — I  come  from  just  west  of  St.  Louis! 
But  then,  in  the  winning  he  's  made,  there  's  a  hope 

That  I  may  do  even  as  he  did, 
So  I  swallow  my  sneer  and  I  study  his  dope 

To  discover  just  why  he  succeeded. 

I  Ve  been  up  in  the  air,  I  've  been  down  in  the  hole, 

(But  always,  let 's  hope,  on  the  level,) 
And  I  've  been  on  my  uppers — so  meagre  my  sole 

'T would  scarcely  have  tempted  the  devil! 
But  it 's  nothing  to  you  what  I  am,  or  I  was, 

And  no  whit  of  your  sympathy  's  needed, 
For  I  'm  certain  to  win  in  the  long  run,  because 

I  shall  see  how  my  rival  succeeded. 


(32) 


BLOOD  IS  RED. 

OOME  of  us  don't  drink,  some  of  us  do; 

Some  of  us  use  a  word  or  two. 
Most  of  us,  maybe,  are  half-way  ripe 
For  deeds  that  would  't  look  well  in  type. 
All  of  us  have  done  things,  no  doubt, 
We  don't  very  often  brag  about. 
We  are  timidly  good,  we  are  badly  bold, 
But  there's  hope  for  the  worst  of  us,  I  hold, 
If  there  be  a  few  things  we  did  n't  do, 
For  the  reason  that  we  so  wanted  to. 

Some  of  us  sin  on  a  smaller  scale. 

(We  don't  mind  minnows,  we  shy  at  a  whale.) 

We  speak  of  a  woman  with  half  a  sneer, 

We  sit  on  our  hands  when  we  ought  to  cheer. 

The  salad  we  mix  in  the  bowl  of  the  heart 

We  sometimes  make  a  little  too  tart 

For  home  consumption.    We  growl,  we  nag, 

But  we  're  not  quite  lost  if  we  sometimes  drag 

The  hot  words  back  and  make  them  mild 

At  the  moment  they  fret  to  be  running  wild. 

Don't  pin  your  faith  on  the  man  or  woman 
Who  never  is  tempted.    We  're  mostly  human. 
And  whoever  he  be  who  never  has  felt 
The  red  blood  sing  in  the  veins  and  melt 
The  ice  of  convention,  caste  and  creed, 
To  the  very  lact  barrier,  has  no  need 

(33) 


To  raise  his  brows  at  the  rest  of  us. 

It  bides  its  time  in  the  best  of  us, 

And  well  for  him  if  he  do  not  do 

That  which  the  strength  of  him  wants  him  to. 


(34) 


DIAGNOSIS, 

"V"  OU  have  a  grudge  against  the  man 

Who  did  the  thing  you  could  n't  do. 
You  hatched  the  scheme,  you  laid  the  plan. 

And  yet  you  could  n't  push  it  through. 
You  strained  your  soul  and  couldn't  win; 

He  gave  a  breath  and  it  was  easy. 
You  smile  and  swallow  your  chagrin, 
But,  oh,  the  swallow  makes  you  queasy. 

I  know  your  illness,  for,  you  see, 
The  diet  never  pleases  me. 

Your  dearest  friend  has  made  a  strike, 
Has  placed  his  mark  above  the  crowd, 

Has  won  the  thing  which  you  would  like 
And  you  are  glad  for  him,  and  proud. 

Your  tongue  is  swift,  your  cheek  is  red, 
If  some  one  speak  to  his  detraction, 

And  yet,  the  fact  the  thing  is  said 

Affords  you  half  a  satisfaction. 

I  see  the  workings  of  your  mind 
Because  my  own  is  so  inclined. 

You  tell  me  fame  is  hollow  squeak, 
You  say  that  wealth  is  carking  care; 

And  to  live  care-free  a  single  v/eek 
Is  more  than  years  of  work  and  wear. 

(35) 


Alexander  weeps  his  highest  place, 
Diogenes  is  happy  sunning! 

What  matters  it  who  wins  the  race 
So  you  have  had  the  joy  of  running? 

And  yet,  you  covet  prize  and  pelf. 
I  know  it,  for  I  do,  myself. 


(36) 


SPREAD  OUT. 

TN  politics  I  'm  a — never  mind, 
And  you  are  a — I  don't  care, 
But,  anyway,  I  am  rather  inclined 

To  suspect  we  are  both  unfair; 
For  I  have  called  you  a  coward  and  slave 
And  you  have  dubbed  me  a  fool  and  knave. 

(Yet,  perhaps  I  was  right,  for  you  surely  abused 
The  right  of  free  speech  in  the  names  you  used!) 

In  business  you  figure — a  profit,  I  guess, 
And  I  charge  you — as  much  as  I  dare, 

And  I  grumble  that  you  ought  to  do  it  for  less, 
And  you  ask  if  my  price  is  fair. 

But  if /sold  your  goods  and  you  sold  mine, 

I  doubt  if  the  prices  would  much  decline. 

(Though  I  must  insist  that  I  think  I  see 

Where  you'd  still  have  a  little  advantage  of  me!) 

In  religion  you  are  a — who  cares  what? 

And  I  am  a — what's  the  odds? 
So  why  have  I  sneered  at  your  holiest  thought, 

And  why  have  you  jeered  at  my  gods? 
For,  thinking  it  over,  I  'm  sure  we  two 
Were  doing  the  best  that  we  honestly  knew. 

(Though,  of  course,  I  cannot  escape  a  touch 
Of  suspicion  that  you  never  knew  too  much!) 

(37) 


THE   DILETTANT. 

'"PO  lie  outright  in  the  light  of  day 

I  'm  not  sufficiently  skilful, 
But  I  practice  a  bit,  in  an  amateur  way, 

The  lie  which  is  hardly  wilful; 
The  society  lie  and  the  business  lie 
And  the  lie  I  have  had  to  double, 
And  the  lie  that  I  lie  when  I  don't  know  why 

And  the  truth  is  too  much  trouble. 

For  this  I  am  willing  to  take  your  blame 
Unless  you  have  sometimes  done  the  same. 

To  be  a  fool  of  an  A 1  brand 

I  'm  not  sufficiently  clever, 
But  I  often  have  tried  my  'prentice  hand 

In  a  callow  and  crude  endeavor; 
A  fool  with  the  money  for  which  I  've  toiled, 

A  fool  with  the  word  I  've  spoken, 
And  the  foolish  fool  who  is  fooled  and  foiled 

On  a  maiden's  finger  broken. 

If  you  never  yourself  have  made  a  slip, 
I  'm  willing  to  watch  you  curl  your  lip. 

And  yet  my  blood  and  my  bone  resist 

If  you  dub  me  fool  and  liar. 
I  set  my  teeth  and  double  my  fist 

And  my  brow  is  flushed  with  fire. 

(38) 


You  I  deny  and  you  I  defy 
And  I  vow  I  will  make  you  rue  it; 

And  I  lie  when  I  say  that  I  never  lie, 
Which  proves  me  a  fool  to  do  it! 

You  may  jerk  your  thumb  at  me  and  grin 
If  liar  and  fool  you  never  have  been. 


(39) 


THE  CONSERVATIVE. 

A  T  twenty,  as  you  proudly  stood 
"^^And  read  your  thesis,  "Brotherhood, 
If  I  remember  right,  you  saw 
The  fatuous  faults  of  social  law. 

At  twenty-five  you  braved  the  storm 
And  dug  the  trenches  of  Reform, 
Stung  by  some  gadfly  in  your  breast 
Which  would  not  let  your  spirit  rest. 

At  thirty-five  you  made  a  pause 

To  sum  the  columns  of  The  Cause; 

You  noted,  with  unwilling  eye, 

The  heedless  world  had  passed  you  by. 

At  forty  you  had  always  known 
Man  owes  a  duty  to  His  Own. 
Man's  life  is  as  man's  life  is  made; 
The  game  is  fair,  if  fairly  played. 

At  fifty,  after  years  of  stress 
You  bore  the  banner  of  Success. 
All  men  have  virtues,  all  have  sins, 
And  God  is  with  the  man  who  wins. 

At  sixty,  from  your  captured  heights 
You  fly  the  flag  of  Vested  Rights, 
Bounded  by  bonds  collectable, 
And  hopelessly  respectable! 

(40) 


HUSH. 

T7S7HAT  's  the  best  thing  that  you  ever  have 

done? 

The  whitest  day, 
The  cleverest  play 

That  ever  you  set  in  the  shine  of  the  sun? 
The  time  that  you  felt  just  a  wee  bit  proud 
Of  defying  the  cry  of  the  cowardly  crowd 
And  stood  back  to  back  with  God? 
Aye,  I  notice  you  nod, 

But  silence  yourself,  lest  you  bring  me  shame 
That  I  have  no  answering  deed  to  name. 

What's  the  worst  thing  that  ever  you  did? 

The  darkest  spot, 

The  blackest  blot 

On  the  page  you  have  pasted  together  and  hid? 

Ah,  sometimes  you  think  you  've  forgotten  it  quite, 

Till  it  crawls  in  your  bed  i     the  dead  of  the  night 

And  brands  you  its  own  with  a  blush. 

What  was  it?    Nay,  hush! 

Don't  tell  it  to  me,  for  fear  it  be  known 

That  I  have  an  answering  blush  of  my  own. 

But  whenever  you  notice  a  clean  hit  made, 
Sing  high  and  clear 
The  sounding  cheer 

You  would  gladly  have  heard  for  the  play  you 
played, 

(41) 


And  when  a  man  walks  in  the  way  forbidden, 

Think  you  of  the  thing  you  have  happily  hidden 

And  spare  him  the  sting  of  your  tongue. 

Do  I  do  that  which  I  've  sung? 

Well,  it  may  be  I  don't  and  it  may  be  I  do, 

But  I  'm  telling  the  thing  which  is  good  for  you  I 


(42) 


THE  ISLAND. 

TLZOU,  my  friend,  in  your  long-tailed  coat, 

With  your  white   cravat  at  your  withered 

throat, 

Praying  by  proxy  of  him  you  hire, 
Worshiping  God  with  a  quartet  choir, 
Bumping  your  head  on  the  pew  in  front, 
Assenting  "Amen!"  with  an  unctuous  grunt, 
Are  you  sure  it  is  you 
In  the  pew? 

Look! 

You  're  away  on  a  lonely  isle, 
Where  the  scant  breech-clout  is  the  only  style, 
Where  the  day  of  the  week  forgets  its  name, 
Where  god  and  devil  are  all  the  same. 
Look  at  yourself  in  your  careless  clout, 
And  tell  me,  then,  would  you  be  devout? 

One  on  the  island,  one  in  the  pew — 
How  do  you  know  which  is  you? 

You,  dear  maiden,  with  eyes  askance 
At  the  little  soubrette  and  her  daring  dance, 
Thanking  God  that   His  ways  are  wide 
To  allow  you  to  pass  on  the  other  side, 
You,  as  you  ask,  "Will  the  world  approve  ?  " 
At  the  hint  of  a  wabble  out  of  the  groove, 


(43) 


Look! 

On  that  isle  of  the  lonely  sea 
Are  you,  the  saucy  soubrette  and  he. 
And  the  little  grooves  that  you  circle  in 
Are  forever  as  though  they  never  had  been. 
Now  you  are  naked  of  soul  and  limb: 
Will  you  say  what  you  will  not  dare — for  him? 

Which  of  the  women  is  real? 

The  one  you  appear,  or  the  one  you  feel? 

You,  good  sir,  with  your  neck  a-stretch, 
As  the  van  goes  by  with  the  prison  wretch, 
Asking  naught  of  his  ills  or  hurts, 
Judging  "he's  getting  his  just  deserts," 
Pluming  yourself  that  the  moral  laws 
Are  centred  in  you  as  effect  and  cause. 

Look! 

At  the  island,  and  there  you  are 
With  the  long,  strong  arm  which  reaches  far, 
And  there  are  the  natives  who  kneel  and  bow, 
And  where  are  your  mettm  ettaam  now? 
Are  you  sure  that  the  balance  swings  quite  true! 
Or  does  it  a  little  incline  to  you? 

Answer  or  not  as  you  will,  but  oh, 
I  have  an  island,  too,  and  so 
I  know,  I  know. 


(44) 


HUMBLER  HEROES. 

TT    might    not    be    so    difficult    to    lead   the   light 

brigade, 
While  the  army  cheered  behind  you,  and  the  fifes  and 

bugles  played; 
It  might  be  rather  easy,  with  the  war-shriek  in  your 

ears, 
To  forget  the  bite  of  bullets  and  the  taste  of  blood 

and  tears. 
But  to  be  a  scrubwoman,  with  four 

Babies,  or  more, 
Every  day,  every  day  setting  your  back 

On  the  rack, 
And  all  your  reward  forever  not  quite 

A  full  bite 
Of  bread  for  your  babies.     Say! 

In  the  heat  of  the  day 
You  might  be  a  hero  to  head  a  brigade, 
But  a  hero  like  her?     I'm  afraid!     I  'r    afraid! 

It  might  be  very  feasible  to  force  a  great  reform, 
To  saddle  public  passion  and  to  ride  upon  the  storm; 
It  might  be  somewhat  simple  to  ignore  the  roar  of 

wrath, 
Because  a  second  shout  broke  out  to  cheer  you  on 

your  path. 

But  he  who,  alone  and  unknown,  is  true 
To  his  view, 


(45.. 


Unswerved    by    the    crush     of    the     mutton-browed, 

Blatting  crowd, 
Unwon  by  the  flabby-brained,  blinking  ease 

Which  he  sees 
Throned  and  anointed.    Say! 

At  the  height  of  the  fray, 

You  might  be  the  chosen  to  captain  the  throng: 
But  to  stand  all  alone?    How  long?    How  long? 


CONSCIENCE   PIANISSIMO. 

"VOU  are  honest  as  daylight.    You  're  often  assured 
That  your  word  is  as  good  as  your  note — un 
secured. 

We  could  trust  you  with  millions  unaudited,  but 

(Tut,  tut! 

There  is  always  a  "but," 

So  don't  get  excited,)  I  'm  pained  to  perceive 
It  is  seldom  I  notice  you  grumble  or  grieve 
When  the  custom-house  officer  pockets  your  tip 
And  passes  the  contraband  goods  in  your  grip. 
You  would  scorn  to  be  shy  on  your  ante,  I  'm  certain, 
But  skinning  your  Uncle  you  're  rather  expert  in. 

Well,  I  'm  proud  that  no  taint  of  the  sort  touches  me. 
(For  I  've  never  been  over  the  water,  you  see.) 

Your  yardstick  's  a  yard  and  your  goods  are  all  wool; 
Your  bushel 's  four  pecks  and  you  measure  it  full. 
You  are  proud  of  your  business  integrity,  yet — 

(Don't   fret! 

There  is  always  a  "yet,") 
I  never  have  noticed  a  sign  of  distress,  or 
Disturbance  in  you,  when  the  upright  assessor 
Has  listed  your  property  somewhere  about 
Half  what  you  would  take  were  you  selling  it  out. 
You  're  as  true  to  the  world  as  the  world  to  its  axis, 
But  you  chuckle  to  swear  off  your  personal  taxes. 


(47) 


As  for  me,  I  would  scorn  to  do  any  such  thing, 
(Though  I  may  have  considered  the  question  last 
spring.) 

You  have  notions  of  right.    You  would  count  it  a  sin 
To  cheat  a  blind  billionaire  out  of  a  pin. 
You  have  a  contempt  for  a  pettiness,  still — 
(Don't  chill! 

There  is  always  a  "still,") 
I  never  have  noticed  you  storm  with  neglect 
Because  the  conductor  had  failed  to  collect, 
Or  growl  that  the  game  was  n't  run  on  the  square 
V/hen  your  boy  in  the  high  school  paid  only  half 

fare. 

The  voice  of  your  conscience  is  lusty  and  audible, 
But  a  railroad — good  heavens!  why,  that's  only  laud 
able. 

Of  course,  /  am  quite  in  a  different  class; 
For  me,  it  is  painful  to  ride  on  a  pass! 


(48) 


THE  WORLD  RUNS  ON. 

OO  many  good  people  find  fault  with  God, 

Tho1  admitting  He  's  doing  the  best  He  can, 
But  still  they  consider  it  somewhat  odd 

That  He  does  n't  consult  them  concerning  his  plan, 
But  the  sun  sinks  down  and  the  sun  climbs  back, 
And  the  world  runs  round  and  round  its  track. 

Or  they  say  God  does  n't  precisely  steer 
This  world  in  the  way  they  think  is  best, 

And  if  He  would  listen  to  them,  He  'd  veer 
A  hair  to  the  sou',  sou'west  by  west. 

But  the  world  sails  on  and  it  never  turns  back 

And  the  Mariner  never  makes  a  tack. 

Or  the  same  folk  pray  "O,  if  Thou  please, 
Dear  God,  be  a  little  more  circumspect; 

Thou  knowest  Thy  worm  who  is  on  his  knees 
Would  not  willingly  charge  thee  with  neglect, 

But  O,  if  indeed  Thou  knowest  all  things, 

Why  fittest  Thou  not  Thy  worm  with  wings? 

So  many  good  people  are  quite  inclined 
To  favor  God  with  their  best  advices, 

And  consider  they  're  something  more  than  kind 
In  helping  Him  out  of  critical  crises. 

But  the  world  runs  on,  as  it  ran  before, 

And  eternally  shall  run  evermore. 


(49) 


So  many  good  people,  like  you  and  me, 
Are  deeply  concerned  for  the  sins  of  others 

And  conceive  it  their  duty  that  God  should  be 
Apprised  of  the  lack  in  erring  brothers. 

And  the  myriad  sun-stars  seed  the  skies 

And  look  at  us  out  of  their  calm,  clear  eyes. 


(50) 


PASS. 

"P\ID  somebody  give  you  a  pat  on  the  back? 

Pass  it  on! 
Let  somebody  else  have  a  taste  of  the  snack, 

Pass  it  on! 

If  it  heightens  your  courage,  or  lightens  your  pack, 
If  it  kisses  your  soul,  with  a  song  in  the  smack, 
Maybe  somebody  else  has  been  dressing  in  black; 

Pass  it  on! 

God  gives  you  a  smile,  not  to  make  it  a  yawn; 
Pass  it  on! 

Did  somebody  show  you  a  slanderous  mess? 

Pass  it  by! 

When  a  brook 's  flowing  by,  will  you  drink  at  the 
cess? 

Pass  it  by! 

Dame  Gossip's  a  wanton,  whatever  her  dress; 
Her  sire  was  a  lie  and  her  dam  was  a  guess, 
And  a  poison  is  in  her  polluting  caress; 

Pass  it  by! 

Unless  you  're  a  porker,  keep  out  of  the  sty. 
Pass  it  by! 

Did  somebody  give  you  an  insolent  word? 

Pass  it  up! 

"Pis  the  creak  of  a  cricket,  the  pwit  of  a  bird; 
Pass  it  up! 


(51) 


Shake  your  fist  at  the  sea!    Is  its  majesty  blurred? 
Blow  your  breath  at  the  sky!    Is  its  purity  slurred? 
But  the  shallowest  puddle,  how  easily  stirred! 

Pass  it  up! 

Does  the  puddle  invite  you  to  dip  in  your  cup? 
Pass  it  up! 


(52) 


PUBLICITY. 

nothing  like  publicity 
To  further  that  lubricity 
Which  minted  cartwheels  need 
To  maximize  their  speed 
In  your  direction. 
True,  some  hydropathist  of  stocks, 
Or  one  whose  trade  is  picking  locks, 

May  make  objection: 
Yet  even  those  gentry  always  lurk 
Where  booming  first  has  done  its  work. 

Observe  how  oft  some  foreigner, 
About  the  size  of  coroner, 
Can  sell  LORD 
(Four  letters,  as  you  see,) 

For  seven  numbers, 
Because  his  trade-mark,  thus  devised, 
Is  advertised  and  advertised 

Till  it  encumbers 

The  mental  view,  as  though  't  were  some 
Bald-headed  brand  of  chewing-gum. 

Study  your  own  psychology! 
See  how  some  mere  tautology 
Of  picture,  or  of  print, 
Has  realized  the  glint 
Of  your  good  money. 

(53) 


How  often  have  persistent  views 

Of  one  bare  head  sold  you  your  shoes! 

Which  does  seem  funny; 
And  yet  't  was  head-work,  after  all, 
Which  helped  the  shoe-man  make  his  haul. 

There  's  some  obscure  locality 
In  every  man's  mentality 
Which,  I  am  free  to  state, 
I  'd  like  to  penetrate 

For  my  felicity. 

For  now  who  gives  a  second  look 
When  he  perceives  a  POEM  by  Cooke? 

But  come  publicity! 

And  then  a  poem  by  COOKE  were  seen 
The  first  thing  in  the  magazine ! 


(54) 


44 


bump  us.,  anb  bump 
us  fjarb" 


MOVE! 

\X7E  are  on  the  main  line  of  a  crowded  track; 

We  've  got  to  go  forward;  we  can  't  go  back 
And  run  the  risk  of  colliding: 
We  must  make  schedule,  not  now  and  again, 
But  always,  forever  and  ever,  amen! 

Or  else  switch  off  on  a  siding. 
If  ever  we  loaf,  like  a  car  in  the  yard, 
Does  n't  somebody  bump  us,  and  bump  us  hard, 
I  wonder? 

You  Ve  succeeded  in  building  a  pretty  fair  trade, 
But  can  you  sit  down  in  the  grateful  shade 

And  kill  time  cutting  up  capers? 
Or  must  you  hustle  and  scheme  and  sweat, 
Though  the  shine  be  fine  or  the  weather  be  wet, 

And  keep  your  page  in  the  papers? 
If  ever  you  fail  to  be  pulling  the  strings, 
Are  n't  some  of  your  rivals  around  doing  things, 
I  wonder? 

You  're  a  first-class  salesman.    You  know  your  line ; 
Your  house  is  goo^  and  your  goods  are  fine, 

So  you  fill  your  book  with  orders, 
But  can  you  get  quit  of  the  ball  and  chain, 
Or  are  you  in  jail  on  a  railroad  train, 

With  blue-coated  men  for  warders? 


(55) 


If  you  sent  your  samples  and  cut  out  the  trip, 
Would  n't  somebody  else  soon  be  lugging  your  grip, 
I  wonder? 

You  are  starred  on  the  bills  and  are  chummy  with 

fame; 
The  man  on  the  corner  could  tell  you  your  name 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
But  can  you  depend  on  the  mind  of  the  mob? 
Can  you  tell  your  press-agent  to  look  for  a  job, 

Or  give  your  manager  warning? 

Should  you  lie  down  to  sleep,  with  your  laurels  be 
neath, 

Would  n't    somebody    else    soon    be    wearing    your 
wreath, 

I  wonder? 

Oh,  I  'm  willing  to  work,  but  I  wish  I  could  lag, 
Not  feeling  as  if  I  were  "it"  for  tag, 

Or  last  in  follow-my-leader; 

There  is  only  one  spot  where,  I  have  n't  a  doubt, 
Nobody  will  try  to  be  crowding  me  out, 

And  that  is  under  the  cedar. 
And  even  in  that  place,  will  Gabriel's  trump 
Come  nagging  along  and  be  making  me  jump? 
I  wonder. 


(56) 


,  anb  praise, 
anb  puff" 


GET   NEXT. 

/"^HAP.  I.,  verse  1,  is  where  you'll  find 

The  text  of  what  is  in  my  mind 
If,  haply,  you  are  so  inclined. 
Chap.  I.,  verse  1 — the  primal  rule 
For  saint  or  sinner,  sage  or  fool, 
No  matter  what  his  church  or  school. 
Though  you  may  call  it  slangy  solely, 
Though  you  may  term  it  flippant  wholly, 
Truth  still  is  truth  and  is  not  vexed; 
I  write  this  rhyme  to  prove  the  text — 
Get  Next. 

Suppose  I  sought  some  lonely  height 
And  dipped  a  stylus  in  the  light 
Of  welding  worlds  and  sought  to  write 
Upon  the  highest,  deepest  blue 
My  message  to  Sam  Smith  and  you. 
The  chances  are  it  would  not  do. 
You  would  not  risk  your  neck  to  read 
My  much  too  altitudinous  screed, 
And  I,  chagrined  and  half-perplexed, 
Had  missed  you  when  I  missed  my  text- 
Get  Next. 

Suppose  you  have  a  breakfast  food 
Which  you  conceive  I  should  include 
Within  my  lat-and-longitude. 


(57) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 


'T  is  not  enough  to  have  the  stuff, 
But  you  must  post,  and  praise,  and  puff, 
Until  I  memo,  on  my  cuff, 
Among  my  most  important  notes — 
Be  sure  to  bring  home  Oatless  Oats. 
And  then  you  know  that  I  'm  annexed, 
Because  you  followed  out  the  text — 
Get  Next. 

Get  next!  get  next!  and  hold  it  true 
There  's  one  you  must  get  nextest  to, 
And  that  important  one  is  you. 
Be  not  of  those  who,  uncommuned 
With  their  own  skins,  have  all  but  swooned 
From  some  imaginary  wound, 
But  strip  the  rags  from  off  your  soul 
And  find  you  are  not  maimed,  but  whole! 
'T  is  but  a  flea-bite  which  has  vexed 
As  soon  as  you  Ve  applied  the  text — 
Get  Next. 


(58) 


ARE  YOU  YOU? 

A  RE  you  a  trailer,  or  are  you  a  trolley? 
"^^  Are  you  tagged  to  a  leader  through  wisdom  and 

folly? 

Are  you  Somebody  Else,  or  You? 
Do    you    vote    by     the     symbol     and     swallow     it 

"straight"? 

Do  you  pray  by  the  book,  do  you  pay  by  the  rate? 
Do  you  tie  your  cravat  by  the  calendar's  date? 
Do  you  follow  a  cue? 

Are  you  a  writer,  or  that  which  is  worded? 
Are  you  a  shepherd,  or  one  of  the  herded? 

Which  are  you — a  What  or  a  Who? 
It  sounds  well  to  call  yourself  "one  of  the  flock," 
But  a  sheep  is  a  sheep  after  all.    At  the  block 
You're  nothing  but  mutton,  or  possibly  stock. 

Would  you  flavor  a  stew? 

Are  you  a  being  and  boss  of  your  soul? 
Or  are  you  a  mummy  to  carry  a  scroll? 

Are  you  Somebody  Else,  or  You? 
When  you  finally  pass  to  the  heavenly  wicket 
Where  Peter  the  Scrutinous  stands  on  his  picket, 
Are  you  going  to  give  him  a.  blank  for  a  ticket? 

Do  you  think  it  will  do? 


(59) 


THE  PRICE. 

TN,  or  under,  or  over  the  earth, 

What  will  fill  you,  and  what  suffice? 
No  matter  how  mean,  or  much  its  worth, 

It  is  yours  if  you  pay  the  price. 
Never  a  thing  may  a  man  attain, 
But  gain  pays  loss,  or  loss  pays  gain. 

Lady  of  riches,  riot  and  rout, 
Fair  of  flesh  and  sated  of  sense, 

Nothing  in  life  you  need  do  without 
Except  the  trifle  of  innocence. 

Counterfeit  kisses  you  paid,  and  got 

Just  what  you  paid  for — which  is  what? 

Man  of  adroitness,  place  and  power, 
Trampled  above  and  torn  below; 

Set  in  the  light  of  your  noonday  hour, 
Playing  a  part  in  the  public  show; 

Fooling  the  mob  that  the  mob  be  ruled: 

You  know  which  is  the  greater  fooled. 

Artist  of  pencil,  or  paint,  or  pen, 
Reed,  or  string,  or  the  vocal  note, 

Making  the  soul  to  suffer  again 
And  the  wild  heart  clutch  the  throat; 

Ever  your  fancy  has  paid  in  fact; 

You  rack  my  soul,  as  yours  was  racked. 


(60) 


of 


nnocence 


" 


THE  BUBBLE-FLIES. 

T    ET  me  read  a  homily 
Concerning  an  anomaly 

I  view 

In  you. 

Whatever  you  are  striving  for, 
Whatever  you  are  driving  for, 
'T  is  not  alone  because  you  crave 
To  be  successful  that  you  slave 
To  swim  upon  the  topmost  wave. 
You  care  less  what  your  station  is, 
But  more  what  your  relation  is. 
To  be  a  bit  above  the  rest ! 
To  be  upon,  or  of,  the  crest! 
Ah!  that  is  where  the  trouble  lies 
Which  stirs  you  little  bubble-flies. 

(I  sneer  these  sneers,  but  just  the  same 
I  keep  my  fingers  in  the  game.) 
See!  you  have  eat-and-drinkables 
And  portables  and  thinkables 

And  yet 

You  fret. 

For  what?    Let's  reach  the  heart  of  you 
And  see  the  funny  part  of  you. 
For  what?    I  find  the  soul  and  seed 
Of  it  is  not  your  lack  or  need, 
Or  even  merely  vulgar  greed. 


(61) 


Gold?    You  may  have  a  store  of  it, 
But  someone  else  has  more  of  it. 
Fame?    Pretty  things  are  said  of  you, 
But — some  one  is  ahead  of  you. 
Place?    You  disprize  your  easy  one 
For  some  one  's  high  and  breezy  one. 

(I  smile  these  smiles  to  soothe  my  soul, 
But  squint  one  eye  upon  the  goal.) 

Tell  me!  what's  your  capacity 
Compared  to  your  voracity? 

/  guess 

'Tis  less. 

And  so  I  strike  these  attitudes 
And  tender  you  these  platitudes; — 
Not  wishing  wealth,  or  spurning  it, 
Not  hoarding   it,  or  burning  it 
Is  equal  to  the  earning  it. 
Life's  race  is  in  the  riding  it, 
Not  in  the  word  deciding  it. 
And  after  all  is  said  and  uttered 
The  keenest  taste  is  bread-and-buttered. 

(And   yet — and  yet — my   palate   aches 
For  pallid  pie  and  pasty  cakes!) 


(62) 


f  lies 


QUALIFIED. 

T  LOVE  to  see  my  friend  succeed; 
I  love  to  praise  him;  yes,  indeed! 

And  so,  no  doubt,  do  you. 
But  will  you  tell  me  why  it  is 
The  praise  we  parcel  out  as  his 

So  often  goes  askew, 
And  ends  by  running  in  the  rut 
Of  "if,"  "except"  or  "but"? 

"Boggs  is  a  clever  chap.    His  trade 
Is  doubling  yearly,  and  he  's  made 

A  fortune  all  right,  but " 

"Sharp  is  elected.     Well,  I  say! 
He  '11  hit  a  high  mark  yet,  some  day, 

If "  (here  one  eye  is  shut). 

"Such  acting!  Why,  I  laughed  and  wept! 
Fobb's  art  is  great — except." 

"Miss  Hautton  has  such  queenly  grace. 
And  then  her  figure  and  her  face! 

She  'd  be  a  beauty  if " 

"And  Mrs.  Follol  entertains 
With  so  much  taste  and  so  much  pains; 

But "  (here  a  little  sniff). 

"And  Mrs.  Caste  has  ever  kept 
The  narrow  path — except." 


(63) 


I  wish  some  man  were  great  and  good 
That  I  might  praise  him  all  I  could 

And  never  add  a  "but." 
I  would  that  some  would  value  me 
And  never  hint  what  I  would  be 

"If"— but  why  cavil?     Tut! 
Eternal  justice  still  is  kept 
And  Heaven  is  good — except! 


(64) 


laurels 
are  brp  anb  beab 


WHAT  ARE  YOU  DOING  ? 

T~)O  you  lazily  nurse  your  knee  and  muse? 

Do  you  contemplate  your  conquering  thews 

With  a  critical  satisfaction? 
But  yesterday's  laurels  are  dry  and  dead 
And  to-morrow's  triumph  is  still  ahead; 

To-day  is  the  day  for  action. 

Yesterday's  sun:  is  it  shining  still? 
To-morrow's  dawn:  will  its  coming  fill 

To-day,  if  to-day's  light  fail  us? 
Not  so.  The  past  is  forever  past; 
To-day's  is  the  hand  which  holds  us  fast, 

And  to-morrow  may  never  hail  us. 

The  present  and  only  the  present  endures, 
So  it's  hey  for  to-day!  for  to-day  is  yours 

For  the  goal  you  are  still  pursuing. 
What  you  have  done  is  a  little  amount; 
What  you  will  do  is  of  lesser  account, 

But  the  test  is,  what  are  you  doing? 


(65) 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR. 

TUTcUMPHREY'S  a  fellow  who  's  lengthy  on  lungs. 
•"•*•  Backed   up   by   the   smoothest   of   ball-bearing 

tongues, 

And  his  topic — himself — is  worth  talking  about, 
But  he  works  it  so  much  he  has  frazzled  it  out. 
He  never  will  give  me  my  half  of  a  chance 
To  chip  in  my  own  little,  clever  romance 
In  the  first  person  singular.     Yes,  and  they  say, 
He  offended  you,  too,  in  a  similar  way. 

Cousin  Maud  tells  her  illnesses,  ancient  and  recent, 
In  a  most  minute  way  which  is  almost  indecent! 
Vivisecting  herself,  with  some  medical  chatter, 
She  serves  us  her  portions — as  if  on  a  platter, 
Never  noting  how  I  am  but  waiting  to  stir 
My  dregs  of  diseases  to  offer  to  her. 
And  I  hear  (such  a  joke!)  that  your  chronic  gastritis 
Stands  silent  forever  before  her  nephritis. 

Mrs.  Henderson's  Annie  goes  out  every  night, 
And  Bertha,  before  her,  was  simply  a  fright, 
While  Agnes  broke  more  than  the  worth  of  her  head, 
And  Maggie — well,  some  things  are  better  unsaid. 
Such  manners  to  talk  of  her  help — when  she  knows 
My  wife's  simply  aching  to  tell  of  our  woes ! 
And  I  hear  that  she  never  lets  you  get  a  start 
On  your  story  of  Rosy  we  all  know  by  heart. 


(66) 


You  'd  hardly  believe  that  I  've  heard  Bunson  tell 
The  Flea-Powder  Frenchman  and  Razors  to  Sell, 
The  One-Legged  Goose  and  that  old  What  You 

Please — 

And  even,  I  swear  it,  The  Crow  and  the  Cheese. 
And  he  sprang  that  old  yarn  of  He  Said  'twas  His 

Leg, 

When  you  wanted  to  tell  him  Columbus's  Egg, 
While  I  wanted  to  tell  my  own  whimsical  tale 
(Which  I  recently  wrote)  of  The  Man  in  the  Whale ! 


«57) 


THE  CHOICE. 

little  it  takes  to  make  life  bright, 
If  we  open  our  eyes  to  get  it! 
And  the  trifle  which  makes  it  black  as  night, 

If  we  close  our  lids  and  let  it! 
Behold,  as  the  world  goes  whirling  by, 
It  is  gloomy,  or  glad,  as  it  fits  your  eye. 

As  it  fits  your  eye,  and  I  mean  by  that 
You  find  what  you  look  for  mostly; 

You  can  feed  your  happiness  full  and  fat, 
You  can  make  your  miseries  ghostly, 

Or  you  can  forget  every  joy  you  own 

By  coveting  something  beyond  your  zone. 

In  the  storms  of  life  we  can  fret  the  eye 
Where  the  guttering  mud  is  drifted, 

Or  we  can  look  to  the  world-wide  sky 
Where  the  Artist's  scenes  are  shifted. 

Puddles  are  oceans  in  miniatures, 

Or  merely  puddles;  the  choice  is  yours. 

We  can  strip  our  niggardly  souls  so  bare 
That  we  haggle  a  penny  between  us; 

Or  we  can  be  rich  in  a  common  share 
Of  the  Pleiades  and  Venus. 

You  can  lift  your  soul  to  its  outermost  look, 

Or  can  keep  it  packed  in  a  pocketbook. 


(68) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS, 


We  may  follow  a  phantom  the  arid  miles 

To  a  mountain  of  cankered  treasure, 
Or  we  can  find,  in  a  baby's  smiles, 

The  pulse  of  a  living  pleasure. 
We  may  drink  of  the  sea  until  we  burst, 
While  the  trickling  spring  would  have  quenched  our 
thirst, 


(69) 


THE  SAVING  CLAUSE. 

wrote  a  book,  and  a  good  book,  too; 
•         At  least  I*  managed  to  read  it  through 
Without  finding  very  much  room  for  blame, 
And  a  good  many  other  folks  did  the  same. 
But  when  any  one  asked  me*:  "Have  you  read?" 
Or:  "How  do  you  like?"  I*  only  said: 
"Very  good,  very  good!  and  I'm  glad  enough; 
For  his  other  writings  are  horrible  stuff." 

Banks  wrote  a  play,  and  it  had  a  run. 

(That 's  a  good  deal  more  than  ever  I've*  done.) 

The  interest  held  with  hardly  a  lag 

From  the  overture  to  the  final  tag. 

But  when  any  one  asked  me*:  "Have  you  seen?" 

Or:  "What  do  you  think?"  I*  looked  serene 

And  remarked:  "Oh,  a  pretty  good  thing  of  its  kind, 

But  I  guess  Mr.  Shakespeare  needn't  mind!" 

Phelps  made  a  machine;  'twas  smooth  as  grease. 

(I*  could  n't  invent  its  smallest  piece 

In  a  thousand  years.)     It  was  tried  and  tried, 

Until  everybody  was  satisfied. 

But  when  any  one  asked  me*:  "Will  it  pay?"— 

"Is  it  really  good?" — I*  could  only  say: 

"It 's  a  marvelous  thing !    Why,  it  almost  thinks ! 

And  Phelps  is  a  wonder — too  bad  he  drinks!" 

*  (Errata:   On  scanning  the  verses  through 
I  find  these  pronouns  should  all  read  "You.") 

(70) 


needn't  mint 


BETWEEN  TWO  THIEVES. 

OURE!   I  am  one  who  disbelieves 

In  thieves; 

At  which  you  interrupt  to  cry 
"Aye,  aye,  and  I." 
Hmf !  you  're  so  sudden  to  agree. 
Suppose  we  see. 

I  know  a  thief.    No  matter  whether 

I  ought  to  know  a  thief,  or  not. 
Perhaps  "we  went  to  school  together;" 

That  old  excuse  is  worked  a  lot. 
One  day  he  "copped  a  rummy's  leather," 

Which  means — I  hate  to  tell  you  what. 
It 's  such  a  vulgar  thing  to  steal 

A  drunkard's  purse  to  buy  a  meal. 
"Hey,  pal,"  said  he,  "come  help  me  dine; 

I've  hit  a  pit  and  got  the  swag; 
To-day,  Delmonico's  is  mine; 

To-morrow  once  again  a  vag. 
Come  on  and  tell  me  all  the  stunts 
Of  all  the  boys  who  knew  me — once." 

"Did  I  go  with  him?"      I  did  not. 

Would  you  have  gone?    Could  you  be  bought 

By  dinners — when  the  trail  was  hot 

And  any  hour  he  might  be  caught? 


(71) 


I  know  a  thief,  whose  operations 
Are  colored  by  a  kindly  law. 

Your  income  and  a  beggar's  rations 
Contribute  to  his  cunning  claw; 

Cities  and  counties,  courts  and  nations 
Pay  portion  to  his  monstrous  maw. 

He  gave  a  dinner  not  long  since 
In  honor  of  some  played-out  Prince. 
The  decorations,  ah,  how  chaste! 

And  how  delicious  was  the  wine! 
For  Mrs.  Thief  has  perfect  taste 

And  Mr.  Thief  knows  how  to  dine. 
And  so  the  world  has  long  agreed 
Quite  to  forgive,  forget — and  feed. 
But  really  I  was  shocked  to  see 
How  many  decent  folks  could  be 
Induced  to  come  and  bow  the  knee; 
I  think  you  were  my  fbis-a.-rbis. 

Yes,  yes,  I  quite  despise  him,  too, 

Like  you; 

And  (though  it 's  not  a  thing  to  brag) 

I  somehow  like  the  vag. 

But,  oh,  the  difference  one  perceives 

Between  two  thieves! 


(72) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 


THE  SPECTATOR. 

T    OOK  at  the  man  with  the  crown 

Weighing  him  down. 
Plumed  and  petted, 
Galled  and  fretted! 
Why  do  you  eye  him  askance 
With  a  quiver  of  hate  in  your  glance? 
Why  not  conceive  him  as  human, 
Nursed  at  the  breast  of  c  woman, 
Growing,  mayhap,  as  he  could, 

Not  as  he  would? 
How  are  you  sure  you  would  be 
Better  and  wiser  than  he? 

Look  at  the  woman  whose  eye 

Follows  you  by. 
Silked  and  satined, 
Scented,  fattened! 
Why  does  the  half  smile  slip 
Into  a  sneer  on  your  lip? 
You  pity  her?    Ah,  but  the  fashion 
Of  your  complacent  compassion. 
Pity  her!  yet  you  have  said, 
"Better  the  creature  were  dead. 
What  is  there  left  here  for  her 

But  to  err?" 

Thus  would  you  make  the  world  right, 
Hiding  its  ills  from  your  sight. 


(73) 


Look  at  the  man  with  the  pack 

Breaking  his  back. 
Ragged,  squalid, 
Wretched,  stolid. 
And  you  are  sorry,  you  say, 
(Much  as  you  are  at  a  play.) 
But  do  you  say  to  him,  "Brother, 
Twin-born  son  of  our  mother 
What  were  the  word,  or  the  deed 

Fitting  your  need?" 
Or,  as  he  slouches  by, 
Do  you  breathe  "God  be  praised,  I  am  I  ? 


(74) 


be  pratseb, 
31  am  31!" 


THE  SQUEALER. 

/*"\F  course  some  people  are  born  so  bright 

That  no  matter  what  one  may  say,  or  write, 
The  theme  is  old  and  the  lesson  is  trite, 
Which  is  what  you  may  say,  as  these  lines  unreel 
And  I  mildly  suggest  it  is  better  to  feel 
Than  to  squeal. 

Everybody  knows  that?    Yes,  it's  certain  they  do, 
Everybody,  that  is,  with  exception  of  two, 
Of  whom  I  am  one  and  the  other  is  you. 
But  for  us  the  lesson  is  still  remote, 
Although  we  commit  it  and  cite  it  and  quote 
It  by  rote. 

But  still  when  you  thrill  with  the  thudding  thump 
From  the  fist  of  the  fellow  you  tried  to  bump 
And  the  world  looks  hard  at  the  swelling  lump, 
There's  a  strong  temptation  to  open  your  door 
And  invite  the  public  to  hear  you  roar 
That  you're  sore. 

And  again,  tho'  'tis  plain  as  the  printed  page: — 
"Keep  your  hand  on  the  lever  and  watch  the  gauge 
When  the  fire-pot's  full  and  the  boilers  rage," 
How  often  the  steam-pressure  grows  and  grows 
And  before  the  engineer  cares  or  knows, 
Up  she  goes. 


(75) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 


So  why  should  you  fret  if  I  send  you  to  school 
Again  to  consider  the  sapient  rule 
That  Wisdom  is  Silence  and  Speech  is  a  Fool. 
Close  up!  and  a  year  from  to-day  you  will  kneel 
And  thank  the  good  Lord  that  you  knew  how  to  feel 
And  not  squeal. 


(76) 


DISTANCE  AND  DISENCHANTMENT. 

TLTE  was  playing  New  York,  and  on  Broadway  at 
"  that; 

I  was  playing  in  stock,  in  Chicago. 
I  heard  that  his  Hamlet  fell  fearfully  flat; 

He  heard  I  was  fierce,  as  lago. 
Each  looked  to  the  other  exceedingly  small; 
We  were  too  far  apart,  that  is  all. 
You,  too,  if  your  vision  is  ever  reflective, 
Have  noticed  your  rival  is  small  in  perspective. 

I  heard  him  in  Memphis  (a  chance  matinee); 

He  heard  me  (one  Sunday)  in  Dallas. 
His  critics,  I  swore,  never  witnessed  the  play; 

He  vowed  mine  were  prompted  by  malice. 
A  pleasanter  fellow  I  cannot  recall. 
We  were  closer  together;  that's  all. 
And  your  rival,  too,  if  you  once  see  him  clearly, 
Is  clever,  or  how  could  he  rival  you,  nearly? 

In  Seattle  they  said  he  was  greater  than  Booth, 
(Or  in  Portland,  perhaps;  I've  forgotten); 

I  said  'twas  ungracious  to  speak  the  plain  truth, 
But  his  work  in  the  first  act  was  rotten. 

I  had  only  intended  to  speak  of  the  thrall 

Of  his  wonderful  fifth  act;  that's  all. 

But  when  a  man's  praised  far  ahead  of  his  talents, 

I  guess  you  say  something  to  even  the  balance. 


(77) 


In  Atlanta  I  heard  a  remark  that  he  made 

And  again  in  Mobile,  Alabama; — 
That  he  hardly  thought  Shakespeare  was  meant  to 

be  played 

Like  a  ten-twenty-thirt'  melodrama. 
Oh,  well,  there  was  one  honey-drop  in  the  gall; 
The  fellow  was  jealous;  that's  all. 
And   you,   too,   have   found,   when   a   friendship   is 

broken, 
That  his  words  are  worse  than  the  ones  you  have 

spoken. 


(78) 


etoen  tfje  balance 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 


FAMILY  RESEMBLANCE. 

T  USED  to  boost  the  P.  and  P., 

Designed  to  run  from  sea  to  sea, 
From  Portland,  Ore.,  to  Portland,  Me., 
But  which,  as  all  the  maps  agree, 
Begins  somewhere  in  Minnesota 
And  peters  out  in  North  Dakota. 
You  gibed  because  I  used  to  mock 
Its  streaks  of  rust  and  rolling-stock, 
Its  schedule  and  its  G.  P.  A. 
(Who  took  your  Annual  away,) 
But  lately  you  seem  much  inclined 
To  own  a  sudden  change  of  mind. 

Ah,  me, 
You're  much  like  other  folks,  I  see. 

I  much  admired  the  book  reviews 

Of  Quillip  of  the  Daily  News. 

I  laughed  to  see  him  put  the  screws 

On  some  sprig  of  the  late  Who's-Whos, 

Tear  off  his  verbiage  and  skin  him 

To  show  the  little  there  was  in  him. 

You  said  the  book  he  wrote  himself 

Lay  stranded  on  the  dealer's  shelf 

And  wasn't  worthy  a  critique; 

(Just  what  he  said  of  mine  last  week). 

Perhaps  your  reasoning  was  strong 


(79) 


IMPERTINENT      POEMS 


And  you  were  right  and  I  was  wrong. 

Heigho ! 
I'm  very  much  like  you,  I  know. 

O'Brien's  zeal  ran  almost  daft 

In  its  antipathy  to  graft. 

He  raked  the  practice  fore  and  aft; 

Lord!  how  his  sulphurous  breath  would  waft 

"Eternal  and  infernal  tarmint 

To  ivery  grasping,  grafting,  varmint." 

The  worst  of  these  upon  the  planet, 

He  said,  were  those  who  wanted  granite 

In  public  buildings, — "yis,  begorry!" 

(O'Brien  owns  a  sandstone  quarry.) 

Of  course  I'd  hate  to  see  it  tested, 

But  would  he  be  less  interested 

In  civic  virtue — uninvested? 

Oh,  dear! 
O'Brien's  much  like  us,  I  fear. 


(80) 


IMPERTINENT 


NEED. 

T"\ONT  you  remember  how  you  and  I 

Held  a  property  nobody  wanted  to  buy 

In  San  Jose", 

Until  one  day 

A  man  came  along  from  Franklin,  Pa.? 
And  didn't  we  jump  till  we  happened  to  find 
The  chap  wasn't  going  it  wholly  blind, 
But  all  the  rest  of  the  block  was  bought 
And  he  simply  had  to  have  our  lot. 
Well,  didn't  our  land  go  up  in  price 
Till  double  the  figures  would  scarce  suffice? 

And  don't  we  sometimes  figure  and  fret 
How  he  got  the  best  of  us,  even  yet? 

Don't  you  remember  the  perfect  plan 
You  had,  which  needed  another  man 

To  make  it  win,. 

To  jump  right  in 

And  everlasting  make  things  spin? 
And  you  said  I  had  the  requisite  dash 
And  also  the  trifle  of  hoarded  cash. 
Was  I  glad  to  get  in?    Well,  yes,  indeed! 
Until  I  saw  the  compelling  need 
Which  had  brought  you  to  me,  and  then,  "Ho!  ho! 
None  of  that  for  me,  nay,  not  for  Joe." 

And  I'm  always  provoked  when  I  think  you  made 
The  plan  get  along  without  my  aid. 

(81) 


Don't  you  remember  the  time  we  met 
At  DCS  Moines,  or  was  it  at  Winterset? 

But  anyway,  you 

Were  feeling  blue 

And  tickled  to  see  me  through  and  through. 
And  "Come,  let's  open  a  bottle  of — ink," 
Said  you,  "and  see  if  it's  good  to  drink." 
But  weren't  you  sorry  because  you  spoke 
When  I  had  to  tell  you  I  was  "broke"? 
Oh,  you  lent  me  the  saw-buck,  I  know,  but  still 
I  fancied  your  ardor  had  taken  a  chill. 

And  you've  never  been  able  to  quite  forget 
That  once  I  was  "broke,"  and  in  your  debt. 


(82)    ' 


BETTER. 

/•pHERE'S  only  one  motto  you  need 
To  succeed: 

"Better." 

To  other  man's  winning?    Then  you 
Must  do 

Better. 

From  the  baking  of  bread 
To  the  breaking  a  head, 
From  rhyming  a  ballad 

To  sliming  a  salad, 
From  mending  of  ditches 
To  spending  of  riches, 
Follow  the  rule  to  the  uttermost  letter: 
"Better!" 

Of  course  you  may  say  but  a  few 
Can  do 

Better; 

And  you're  going  to  strive 
So  that  all  may  thrive 

Better. 
And  it's  right  you  are 

To  follow  the  star, 

Set  in  the  heavens,  afar,  afar; 
But  still  with  your  eyes 
On  the  skies 

It  is  wise 

(83) 


To  be  riding  a  mule, 

Or  guiding  a  school, 
Thatching  a  hovel 
Or  hatching  a  novel, 
Foretelling  weather, 
Or  selling  shoe-leather; 
And  remember  you  must 

Be  doing  it  just 

A  wee  dust 

Better. 

And  'tis  quite 
As  right 

For  you  to  cite 
That  the  author  might, 
Or  ought,  to  write 

A  heavenly  sight 

Better! 

For  which  sharp  word  I  am  much  your  debtor, 
Knowing  none  other  could  file  my  fetter 
Better. 


(84) 


atoms  repairs 
anJ)  toratff 


FORGET  WHAT  THE  OTHER  MAN 
HATH. 

XA7HAT  do  I  care  for  your  four-track  line? 

I  have  a  country  path; 

And  this  is  the  message  I've  taken  for  mine:— 
"Forget  what  the  other  man  hath." 

What  do  I  care  for  your  giant  trees? 

I'd  rather  whittle  a  lath, 
And  my  motto  helps  me  to  take  my  ease; — 

"Forget  what  the  other  man  hath." 

What  do  I  care  for  your  Newport  beach? 

A  tub  's  as  good  for  a  bath. 
And  I  keep  my  solace  in  constant  reach: — 
"Forget  what  the  other  man  hath." 

What  do  I  care  for  your  automobile? 

I'm  saving  repairs  and  wrath, 
My  proverb  goes  well  with  an  old  style  wheel ; — 

"Forget  what  the  other  man  hath." 

What  do  I  care  if  you  scorn  my  rime? 

For  this  is  its  aftermath; — 
It  sounds  so  well  I  shall  try,  (sometime,) 

To  "forget  what  the  other  man  hath!" 


(85) 


THE  WHET. 

/1PHE  day  that  I  loaf  when  I  ought  to  employ  it 
Has,  somehow,  the  flavor  which  makes  me  enjoy 
it. 

So  the  man  with  no  work 
He  may  joyously  shirk 
I  envy  no  more  than  I  do  the  Grand  Turk. 
He  most  is  in  need  of  a  holiday,  who, 
In  this  workaday  world,  has  no   duty  to   do. 

The  dollar  you  waste  when  you  ought  not  to  spend  it 
Buys  something  no  plutocrat's  millions  could  lend  it, 

For  if  once  you  exhaust 

All  your  care  of  the  cost, 
Full  half  of  the  pleasure  of  purchase  is  lost, 
So  I  trust  you  are  one  who  is  wise  in  discerning 
The  value  of  spending  is  most  in  the  earning. 

My  little  success  which  was  nearest  complete 
Was  that  which  I  tore  from  the  teeth  of  defeat, 

And  the  man  who  can  hit 

With  his  wisdom  and  wit 
Without  any  effort,  I  envy  no  whit. 
The  genius  whose  laurels  grow  always  the  greenest 
Finds  pleasure  in  plenty,  but  misses  the  keenest. 


(86) 


"WHAT  SORT  ARE  YOU  ? 

"T.TOW  much  do  you  want  for  your  A.  Street  lot?" 

Said  a  real  estate  man  to  me. 
I  looked  as  if  I  were  lost  in  thought 
And  then  I  replied:  "Let's  see; — 
Black's  sold  last  year  at  fifty  the  foot 
And  without  using  algebra  that  should  put 
My  figure  at  sixty  now,  I  guess, 
Or  a  trifle  more,  or  a  trifle  less." 
I  was  anxious  to  sell  at  fifty  straight, 
Or  I  might  have  been  glad  of  forty-eight. 
Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  bluff,  it's  true; 
What  sort  of  a  bluff  are  you? 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  these  railroad  rates?" 

The  man  with  a  bald  brow  said, 
"For  you  have  travelled  through  all  the  states 

And  have  heard  a  good  deal  and  read." 
"The  railroad  lines,"  I  wisely  replied 
"Are  the  lines  with  which  our  trade  is  tied, 
And  the  wretches  who  take  their  rebates  set 
New  knots  in  the  bonds  under  which  we  fret." 
But,  now  I  remember,  I  once  rode  free 
And  forgot  that  the  road  rebated  me! 
Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  bluff,  it's  true; 
How  much  of  a  bluff  are  you? 


(87) 


"You've  been  to  hear  'Siegfried'  and  found  it  fine?" 

Cried  a  classical  friend  one  day. 
"I'm  sure  your  impressions  accord  with  mine, 

But  I  want  your  own  words  and  way. 
And,  oh,  "the  tone-color  beats  belief," 
And,  oh,  "dynamics,"  and  oh,  "motif," 
And  "chiar-oscura,  how  finely  abstruse," 
And  oh,  la-la-la,  and  oh,  well,  what's  the  use? 
For  the  only  thing  I  understood  in  the  play 
Was  that  dippy,  old  dragon  of  papier-mache. 
Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  bluff,  it's  true; 
What  style  of  a  bluff  are  you? 

"And  the  senator  should,  you  believe,  be  returned?" 

Said  a  newspaper-man  to  me. 
"He's  as  rotten  a  rascal  as  ever  burned," 

I  said.    "May  I  quote?"  asked  he. 
"Oh,  no,"  I  replied,  "if  you're  going  to  quote, 
Just  remark  that  his  friends  are  regretting  to  note 
That  the  exigencies  of  the  party  case 
Indicate  that  he  shouldn't  re-enter  the  race." 
For  the  senator  sometime  may  possibly  be 
Interviewed  by  a  newspaper-man  about  me. 
No,  none  of  these  cases  may  quite  fit  you, 
But  what  sort  of  a  bluff  are  you? 


(88) 


i,  of),  tfje  tone 
color  beats  belief" 


THE  CRITICS. 

AS  a  matter  of  fact, 

I  am  sure  I  can  act, 
And  so, 

When  I  go, 

To  the  show, 
Not  the  art  of  an  Irving 
Seems  wholly  deserving, 
And  though  Booth  were  the  star 
He'd  have  many  a  jar, 
If  he  heard  the  critique 
Which  I  frequently  speak, 
As  you 
Do, 
Too. 

Written  deep  in  my  heart 
Is  a  knowledge  of  art, 
For  why? 

I've  an  eye 

Like  a  die. 

And  where  Raphael's  paint 
Has  bedizened  some  saint, 
I  note  his  perspective 
Is  sadly  defective, 
And  you?    O,  I  know 


(89) 


When  you've  looked  on  Corot 
The  same 
Blame 
Came. 

And  the  world  would  have  gained 
If  my  voice  had  been  trained, 
For  my  ear 

Is  severe, 

As  I  hear 

De  Reszke  and  Patti. 
(I've  heard  'em  sing  "ratty!") 
And  the  crowd  has  yelled  "Bis!" 
When  a  call  for  police 
Should  have  shortened  the  score. 
Was  there  ever  a  more 
Absurd 
Word 
Heard? 

And  I  feel,  now  and  then, 
I  could  handle  a  pen, 
For  indeed, 

As  I  heed 

What  I  read, 
I  observe  many  faults; 
Homer  nods,  Shakespere  halts, 
Dante's  sad,  Pope  is  trite, 
Poe's  mechanic,  Holmes  light, 

(90) 


Yet  so  easy  to  do 

Is  the  thing,  even  you 

Might 

Write 

Quite 

Bright! 


(91) 


PLUG. 

AS  you  haven't  asked  me  for  advice,  I'll  give  it 
to  you  now: 

Plug! 

No  matter  who  or  what  you  are,  or  where  you  are, 
the  how 

Is  plug. 
You  may  take  your  dictionary,  unabridged,  and  con 

it  through, 

You  may  swallow  the  Britannica  and  all  its  retinue, 
But  here  I  lay  it  f.  o.  b. — the  only  word  for  you 
Is  plug. 

Are  you  in  the  big  procession,  but  away  behind  the 
band? 

Plug! 

On  the  cobble,  or  asphaltum,  in  the  mud  or  in  the 
sand, 

Plug! 
Oh,  you'll  hear  the  story  frequently  of  how  some 

clever  man 
Cut  clean  across  the  country,  so  that  now  he's  in  the 

van; 

You  may  think  that  you  will  do  it,  but  I  don't  believe 
you  can, 

So  plug! 


(92, 


pou  toant  to 
react)  tfje  fjetgfjte? 


INENT      POEMS. 
C 


Are  you  singing  in  the  chorus?    Do  you  want  to  be 
a  star? 

Plug! 

You  may  think  that  you're  a  genius,  but  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  are, 

So  plug! 
Oh,  you'll  hear  of  this  or  that  one  who  was  born 

without  a  name, 
Who  slept  eleven  hours  a  day  and  dreamed  the  way 

to  fame, 

Who  simply  couldn't  push  it  off,  so  rapidly  it  came! 
But  plug. 

Are  you  living  in  the  valley?    Do  you  want  to  reach 
the  height? 

Plug! 

Where  the  hottest  sun  of  day  is  and  the  coldest  stars 
of  night? 

Plug! 
Oh,  it  may  be  you're  a  fool,  but  if  a  fool  you  want 

to  be, 
If  you  want  to  climb  above  the  crowd  so  every  one 

can  see 

Just  how  a  fool  may  look  when  he  is  at  his  apogee, 
Why,  plug! 

Can  you  make  a  mile  a  minute?     Do  you  want  to 
make  it  two  ? 

Plug! 

(93) 


Are  you  good  and  up  against  it?    Well,  the  only 

thing  to  do 

Is  plug. 
Oh,  you'll  find  some  marshy  places,  where  the  crust 

is  pretty  thin, 
And  when  you  think  you're  gliding  out,  you're  only 

sliding  in, 
But  the  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is  think  of  this  and 

grin, 

And  plug. 

There's  many  a  word  that's  prettier  that  hasn't  half 
the  cheer 

Of  plug. 
It  may  not  save  you  in  a  day,  but  try  it  for  a  year. 

Plug! 
And  to  show  you  I  am  competent  to  tell  you  what 

is  what, 
I  assure  you  that  I  never  yet  have  made  a  centre 

shot, 

Which  surely  is  an  ample  demonstration  that  I  ought 
To  plug. 


(94) 


<?-====£ 

IMPERTINENT 

e^^T 


FAMILIARITY  BREEDS  CONTENT. 

I. 

'OU  sometimes  think  you'd  like  to  be 

John  D.? 

And  not  a  man  you  know  would  dare 
To  josh  you  on  your  handsome  hair, 
Or  say,  "Hey,  John,  it's  rather  rude 
To  boost  refined  and  jump  on  crude, 
To  help  Chicago   University, 
Or  bull  the  doctrine  of — immersity." 

II. 
You  wouldn't  care  to  be  the  Pope, 

I  hope? 

With  not  a  chum  to  call  your  own, 
To  hale  you  up  by  telephone, 
With,  "Say,  old  man,  I  hope  you're  free 
To-night.    Bring  Mrs.  Pope  to  tea. 
Let  some  one  else  lock  up  the  pearly 
Gateway  to-night  and  get  here  early!" 

III. 

Perhaps  you  sometimes  deem  the  Czar 

A  star? 

With  not  a  palm  in  all  the  land 
To  strike  his  fairly,  hand  to  hand, 
With  not  a  man  in  all  the  pack 
To  fetch  a  hand  against  his  back 

(95) 


And  cry,  "Well  met,  Old  Nick,  come  out 
And  let  us  trot  the  kids  about. 
Tut,  man!  you  needn't  look  so  pale, 
A  red  flag  means  an  auction  sale." 

IV. 
I'll  bet  even  Shakespeare's  name  was  "Will," 

Until 

He  was  so  dead  that  he  was  great, 
For  fame  can  only  isolate. 
And  better  than  "The  Immortal  Bard" 
Were  "Hello,  Bill,"  and  "Howdy,  pard!" 
Would  he  have  swapped  his  comrades'  laughter 
For  all  the  praise  of  ages  after? 


(96) 


A  SONG  OF  REST. 

T  HAVE  sung  the  song  of  striving, 

Of  the  struggling,  of  arriving, 

Of  making  of  one's  self  a  horse  and  mounting  him 
and  driving! 

But  now,  let's  cease; 
Let's  look  for  peace. 
Let's  forget  the  mark  of  money, 

Let's  forget  the  love  of  fame. 
Life  is  ours  and  skies  are  sunny; 

What  is  worry  but  a  name? 
Let's  sit  down  and  whiff  and  whittle, 
Let  us  loaf  and  laugh  a  little. 

(Here  the  youngest  spoiled  the  rime 
By  running  to  me  for  a  dime.) 

I  have  sung  the  joy  of  doing, 
Of  the  pleasure  of  pursuing, 

And  how  life  is  like  a  woman  and  our  role  and  rule 
is  wooing, 

But  now,  O  let 
Us  cease  to  fret! 
Let  us  cease  our  vain  desiring; 

Water's  better  than  Cliquot; 
What  is  honor  but  perspiring? 

Wealth's  another  name  for  woe. 
Let  us  spread  out  in  the  clover, 
Just  too  lazy  to  turn  over, — 
(97) 


(Here  my  wife  brought  in  the  news: 
All  the  children  need  new  shoes.) 

I  have  sung  the  song  of  action, 
Of  the  sweet  of  satisfaction 

Of  pounding,  pounding,  pounding   opposition   to   a 
fraction, 

But  now,  let's  quit; 

Let's  rest  a  bit. 

Money  only  makes  us  greedy, 
Life's  success  is  but  a  taunt. 
He  alone  is  never  needy 
Who  has  learned  to  laugh  at  want. 
Let  us  loaf  and  laugh  and  wallow; 
Too  much  work  to  even  swallow — 

(Here's  the  mail  and  bills  are  curses; 
I  must  try  to  sell  these  verses.) 


(98) 


DESIRE. 

QH,  the  ripe,  red  apple  which  handily  hung 

And    flaunted    and    taunted    and    swayed    and 

swung, 

Till  it  itched  your  fingers  and  tickled  your  tongue, 
For  it  was  juicy  and  you  were  young! 
But  you  held  your  hands  and  you  turned  your  head, 
And  you  thought  of  the  switch  which  hung  in  the 

shed, 

And  you  didn't  take  it  (or  so  you  said), 
But  tell  me — didn't  you  want  to? 

Oh,  the  rounded  maiden  who  passed  you  by, 
Whose  cheek  was  dimpled,  whose  glance  was  shy, 
But  who  looked  at  you  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye, 
And  flirted  her  skirt  just  a  trifle  high! 
Oh,  you  were  human  and  not  sedate, 
But  you  thought  of  the  narrow  way  and  straight, 
And  you  didn't  follow  (or  so  you  state), 
But  tell  me — didn't  you  want  to? 

Oh,  the  golden  chink  and  the  sibilant  sign 
Which  sang  of  honey  and  love  and  wine, 

Of  pleasure  and  power  when  the  sun's  a-shine 

And  plenty  and  peace  in  the  day's  decline! 

Oh,  the  dream    was    schemed    and    the    play    was 
planned; 

You  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  reach  your  hand, 

But  you  didn't  (or  so  I  understand), 
But  tell  me — didn't  you  want  to? 
(99) 


Oh,  you  wanted  to,  yes;  and  hence  you  crow 
That  the  Want  To  within  you  found  its  foe 
Which  wanted  you  not  to  want  to,  and  so 
You  were  able  to  answer  always  "No." 
So  you  tell  yourself  you  are  pretty  fine  clay 
To  have  tricked  temptation  and  turned  it  away; 
But  wait,  my  friend,  for  a  different  day! 
Wait  till  you  want  to  want  to! 


(100) 


THERE  IS,  OH,  SO  MUCH. 

'"PHERE  is  oh,  so  much  for  a  man  to  be 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
He  may  cover  the  world  like  the  searching  sea 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
He  may  be  of  the  rush  of  the  city's  roar 
And  his  song  may  sing  where  the  condors  soar, 
Or  may  dip  to  the  dark  of  Labrador, 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 

There  is  oh,  so  much  for  a  man  to  do 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
He  may  sort  the  suns  of  Andromeda  through 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
Or  he  may  strive,  as  a  good  man  must, 
For  the  wretch  at  his  feet  who  licks  the  dust, 
And  never  learn  how  to  be  even  just 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 

There  is  oh,  so  much  for  a  man  to  learn 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now: 
The  least  and  the  most  he  should  trouble  to  earn 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now, 

The  message  burned  bright  on  the  heavenly  scroll, 
The  little  he  needs  that  his  stomach  be  whole, 
The  vastness  of  vision  to  sate  his  soul, 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 


(101) 


There  is  oh,  so  much  for  a  man  to  get 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
He  may  drench  the  earth  in  vicarious  sweat 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
And  his  wealth  may  be  but  a  lifelong  itch, 
While  the  lowliest  digger  within  his  ditch 
May  have  gained  the  little  to  make  him  rich 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 

There  is  oh,  so  much  for  a  man  to  try 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
The  sea  is  so  deep  and  the  hill  so  high 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
But  sometimes  we  look  at  our  little  ball 
Where  the  smallest  is  great  and  the  greatest  small 
And  wonder  the  why  and  the  what  of  it  all 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 

There  is  oh,  so  much,  so  we  work  as  we  may 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now, 
And  loiter  a  little  along  the  way 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now. 
O,  the  honeybee  works,  but  the  honeybee  clings 
To  the  flowers  of  life  and  the  honeybee  sings! 
Let  us  eat  the  sweet  and  forget  the  stings 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  now! 


(102) 


PERTINENT      PO 

r 


HOW  DID  YOU  DIE  ? 

T*\ID  you  tackle  that  trouble  that  came  your  way 

With  a  resolute  heart  and  cheerful? 
Or  hide  your  face  from  the  light  of  day 

With  a  craven  soul  and  fearful? 
Oh,  a  trouble's  a  ton,  or  a  trouble's  an  ounce, 

Or  a  trouble  is  what  you  make  it, 
And  it  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  hurt  that  counts, 

But  only  how  did  you  take  it? 

You  are  beaten  to  earth?    Well,  well,  what's  that? 

Come  up  with  a  smiling  face. 
It's  nothing  against  you  to  fall  down  flat, 

But  to  lie  there — that's  disgrace. 
The  harder    you're    thrown,  why    the  higher    you 
bounce; 

Be  proud  of  your  blackened  eye  ! 
It  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  licked  that  counts, 

It's  how  did  you  fight — and  why? 

And  though  you  be  done  to  the  death,  what  then? 

If  you  battled  the  best  you  could, 
If  you  played  your  part  in  the  world  of  men, 

Why,  the  Critic  will  call  it  good. 
Death  comes  with  a  crawl,  or  comes  with  a  pounce, 

And  whether  he's  slow  or  spry, 
It  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  dead  that  counts, 

But  only  how  did  you  die? 


DATE  DUE 


OAYLORD 


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